


Done pretending

by What_point



Series: Point's pile of JATP fics [8]
Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix it of my own work, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Inner Dialogue, Love, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Rewrite, Sad with a Happy Ending, Self-Doubt, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27524194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/What_point/pseuds/What_point
Summary: He doesn't stop the little game they started, even though they are no longer in the privacy of his room. And he plays along, pretending that he understands what's happening. So the glances stay, the ghost of his hands stays, even the soft lingering touch of his fingers on his lips stays....Rewrite of 'pretending' because it needed a happy ending.
Relationships: Luke Patterson & Reggie (Julie and The Phantoms), Luke Patterson/Reggie (Julie and The Phantoms)
Series: Point's pile of JATP fics [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995184
Comments: 4
Kudos: 98





	Done pretending

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spicy_Cannoli_AKA_Lia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spicy_Cannoli_AKA_Lia/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Pretending](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27356482) by [What_point](https://archiveofourown.org/users/What_point/pseuds/What_point). 



> This work is partly written for Lia, because I felt bad for making you sad with the ending of 'pretending', so this is the raw work of it with a happy ending.  
> Hope you like it!

_"I won't be able to pretend anymore after today,"_ he whispers, the shadows consume his words, till none are left, _"not now I know the taste of your lips, the feeling of your breath on my skin, your hands on my hips, your mouth on my collarbone. I won't be able to pretend."_

But he knows he will. Tomorrow they will be back to pretending that they don't lay down too close for friends when he stays over. That they don't hold each other with hungry eyes in the darkness of the night. That they won't glance at each other during practice, both hurt but both not doing anything to change. That they will be back here when the screaming gets too loud and he can't take it anymore.

But tonight, he will pretend they won't. Tonight he will pretend he will wake up tomorrow, still being held, sharing morning kisses in the light of day. Holding hands under the dinner table during breakfast. Laughing as they change for school. That his hands will find him, and touch him softly on his shoulder, on his arm, on his waist. That he will look at him the way he only does when the moon is their light and the stars their company.

Pretend to live that life, instead of the nothingness he knows that awaits him. How he will open his eyes, alone in a bed that suddenly feels too big, the place next to him almost completely cold. How he will silently slip out of the clothes he was given and just as silently put on his own. How he would walk down, stairs creaking softy, and sit down at the table on the other side. How his eyes would be fixed on the toast, and when he looked up, _his_ eyes would advered, looking everywhere but him. How _he_ would then excuse himself before even finishing his food and running back to his room, leaving him to stare down his plate.

By the time they would leave for school, he would be able to look at him again. Then at the entrance he would push his shoulder against his, a careful touch. Halfway through the first class he would smile at him, and he would grin back, both as cautious. When lunchtime would come around he would throw his arm around him, leaning into him to show the things he wrote for a new song. After school they would talk as freely as their hands did the night before, only not about that.

He wouldn't keep on coming back, deep in the night when everyone should already be asleep, was it not for the way the blanket always tucked in when he woke up. The way his clothes would be placed, folded on the desk chair. The way a glass of juice was already poured for him when he finally made it down. The way his hands would rest on the table, slowly reaching for him, but being pulled back before they could. The way he would glance over his shoulder when he made a run for it, his eyes showing exactly how he felt.

So he says, _"I won't be able to pretend anymore after today."_ But he only tells himself. His mouth stays closed, because if he says it now, everything could stop. And even though it hurts, every little touch a beating, every little kiss a hit to the heart, every little glance directed his way a punch, this was better than nothing. Losing this will be like losing part of himself.

So he doesn't speak up, not under the warmth of his hands, in the darkness of the night, his scent all around him. Not in the early morning, over toast and juice. Not in the hours that follow, listening to subjects he doesn't care about, him next to him writing frantically. Not after school, in the closure of their studio while they wait for the others to get there. Not during practice, when the music takes him over, his voice the only thing he can hear. Not in the walk up to his room, when he sleeps over for the third time that week. No, not even then.

And then they die.

And like always, he pretends that he is fine. He isn't good at it, but good enough to keep their questions away. He watches him dance around her, and it hurts, but he gets it. She is like the sun, bright and strong, so he gets it. But _he_ still glances his way, _his_ fingers still linger on his skin, _his_ smile is still directed at him, making his heart race, even now, when he no longer has one.

He doesn't stop the little game they started, even though they are no longer in the privacy of his room. And he plays along, pretending that he understands what's happening. So the glances stay, the ghost of his hands stays, even the soft lingering touch of his fingers on his lips stays.

And then when she brings it up, he doesn't question how she knows. She asks him what they were. He stares at his hands, thinking of _his_ fingers roaming his shoulder blades. He bites his lip, still feeling the shadow of his.

"We pretended." He tells her, as if it was all there ever was. She smiles sadly at him, as if she understands, knows he isn't saying everything, but she doesn't ask for more.

They spend even more time together without him, but at the same time he believes it when he tells him he 'got chemistry with everyone I sing with.'

And maybe he is making it up, is he seeing things that aren't there. He doesn't want to believe that, not with how _he_ would sit so close that their knees are always touching, or how _he_ would still wave him closer on the stage, their faces inches apart, or how _his_ chin would rest on his shoulder, one hand on his waist, as he explained a new song.

"We're pretending." _he_ says, but he still hears the question it's meant to be. He could have known she would tell _him,_ her heart too big for this world. Everything reminds him of before, the way they sit close, pressed together on the couch, only the two of them. However, they never talked, not about this, so he doesn't know what to say.

 _His_ eyes are soft and warm and open when he works up enough courage to glance his way, looking at him as if they are not walking right into the thing they have been avoiding since he knew how to.

"I didn't know how to explain what we are." He eventually whispers, speaking the words he wanted to, _needed to_ say for so long. He doesn't respond, instead he offers his hand, his palm open, the question loud in the silence of the room.

His hand is shaking as he reaches out, stopping inches away, the tops of his fingers not yet touching the skin of his hand. He looks up, studying his face.

"I'm done pretending." He tells him. The space between them feels like hundreds of miles, impossible to bridge. He knows if he does this now, he won't be able to return.

"Me too." _He_ whispers back, barely audible above the beating of his heart, the sound of his breathing.

He crosses. To a point of no return.

But that doesn't matter.

They're done pretending.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to read angst, and just purely angst, you can check out 'pretending'.  
> This is the first time I wrote something and posted it without extensive editing first, so changes might happen.  
> As always please leave any tips, tricks, or just something you want to say in the comments!


End file.
